Three Months of Real Life

Today it has been three months since the last day at my old job. It feels like I quit a year ago because as soon as I left, I stopped thinking about it.

Well, I take that back. I had nightmares about it for two weeks, and then I stopped thinking about it. It feels like another age. The dark ages.

Without the job to hinder me, I've made strides toward goals that actually matter. Astoundingly, I wrote a thick, detailed outline, developed several complex characters (for my book, not my other personalities), made a list of scenes, and, most surprising of all, actually started writing a book.

Not having a "real" job has also shined a sometimes unwelcome spotlight on other areas of my life.

I thought I ate too much because my job stressed me out. Turns out I just eat too much, period. As I explain here ad nauseam, I am getting to the bottom of that.

Not having a job has allowed me to take everything that happens in my life and deal with it immediately. There is no more internal emotional red tape. All queries are processed immediately, continuously, irritatingly.

When I quit my job, my options at the time were as follows: 1) Quit job. 2) Stay at job and cry every night.

Why did I not understand that I could have quit my job and gotten a different job that I liked more, even if it paid less? I'd worked for beans for so long, that when I finally had a job where I was making a lot of money (comparatively), all I could focus on was the money -- making more of it. If I was to be miserable, at least I would have money.

To buy myself things. And take vacations. In my misery.

Money is nice but there is a reason some jobs give you so much of it, and that's because those jobs are bad, bad jobs. No self-respecting person wants those jobs.

Working at home is quiet and peaceful. No one is distracting me except myself. No one is grading my performance except me.